Page 159 of Lavender and Honey

He guides me through the back door and into the garden. The air is fresh after the recent rain, carrying the scent of wet earth and green growing things. Droplets cling to leaves and petals, catching the light like tiny prisms. Soren's hand remains firmly clasped in mine as he leads me along a winding stone path.

We pass through the garden and toward a section of the property I haven't fully explored yet. The path narrows, winding through a small copse of trees whose branches form a canopyoverhead. Filtered sunlight dapples the ground, creating shifting patterns that dance with our movement.

"Almost there," Soren says, his excitement palpable in the quickening of his step. The mark he left on my neck tingles pleasantly, responding to his proximity and emotion.

"If you're leading me into some secret garden to have your wicked way with me," I tease, "I should warn you that I'm still recovering from my heat."

Soren's laugh is bright and genuine, echoing in the quiet garden. "Tempting," he admits, squeezing my hand. "But no, this is something else entirely."

The path opens suddenly into a small clearing, and I stop short, breath catching in my throat. Before us stands a structure I hadn't noticed before—a small, elegantly designed studio with large windows that catch the afternoon light.

"What is this?" I ask, though something in me already knows the answer.

Soren's smile is softer now, less mischievous and more genuinely pleased. "Your studio," he says simply.

I stand frozen, unable to process what I'm seeing. The studio is perfect—a single room with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, allowing natural light to flood the space. The fourth wall appears solid, painted a soft neutral color that would make an ideal backdrop. The roof has skylights, adding to the abundant illumination.

"My... studio?" I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.

Soren's hand squeezes mine gently. "We noticed you didn't have a dedicated space for your art at your old apartment," he explains, his usual playfulness subdued by something that might be nervousness. "Lucian mentioned you were always setting up and taking down your easel. That seemed inefficient."

I'm still staring at the building, unable to form coherent thoughts. "When did you...?"

"We've been working on it since you came here to stay when your mom was in town. We started it then, Finn is very good at working fast.” Soren told me, his voice soft as he looked at me with such a loving look that had my heart in my throat.

My breath catches as I stare at the studio, emotions washing over me in waves. The thoughtfulness of this gesture is overwhelming—they noticed my cramped working conditions, recognized my need for a dedicated space, and created this... sanctuary.

"Soren," I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what to say."

His purple eyes soften, a rare vulnerability crossing his features. "Say you'll use it? We thought you might want somewhere to really work, without having to pack everything away each time." He tugs my hand gently. "Come see inside."

I follow him toward the studio, still dazed by the reality of this gift. As we draw closer, I notice the craftsmanship of the building—the careful joinery of the wood, the precise installation of the windows, the subtle details that speak of meticulous attention.

"Finn built it," Soren explains, noting my examination. "Designed it too. The man's a perfectionist.”

"Lucian helped with the heavy lifting. Elias and I mainly got in the way and provided moral support." He told me as I continued to look at the building in front of me.

"It's beautiful," I breathe, taking in every detail as we approach the door.

Soren releases my hand to produce a key from his pocket. The small brass object gleams in the sunlight as he offers it to me. "Your studio, your key," he says, a hint of his usual mischief returning. "Though I reserve the right to visit occasionally. For inspiration, of course."

I take the key with trembling fingers, turning it over in my palm. It feels substantial, significant in a way that transcends its physical weight.

He opens the door, stepping aside to let me enter first. The interior takes my breath away. The space is open and airy, with a wooden floor that gleams in the natural light streaming through the windows. Built-in shelves line the solid wall, empty and waiting to be filled with supplies. A large sink occupies one corner, with cabinets beneath that I imagine contain storage space.

In the center of the room stands an easel—not my old, wobbly one, but a sturdy, professional-grade piece that must have cost more than I'd ever spend on myself.

"This is..." I trail off, overwhelmed by emotion as I turn in a slow circle, taking in every detail. "Soren, I can't believe you all did this."

He watches me from the doorway, an uncharacteristic softness in his expression. "We wanted you to have a space that was truly yours," he says. "Somewhere you could create without limitations."

I move slowly through the studio, my fingers trailing over surfaces, absorbing every detail. The shelves are waiting for my supplies, the walls bare and ready for inspiration. It's more than just a room—it's possibility, potential, promise.

"The lighting was Lucian's obsession," Soren explains, following me into the space. "He researched the optimal orientation for natural light. Something about north-facing windows being best for artists? I stopped listening after the third lecture, but I think he got it right."

A laugh bubbles up through my emotion. "He did," I confirm, noting how the windows face to capture indirect light rather than harsh direct sunlight. "It's perfect for consistent lighting throughout the day."

Soren grins, pleased with this confirmation. "The sink was Elias's contribution. He insisted you needed proper water access for cleaning brushes and... whatever else artists clean."

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